rohan

Me and Gyth, Bawde an' Wulfie got out as far as that Oat's Guruth, past the forsaken inn. A miserable place it is, full o' folk that have no homes. They says that there is shades an' worse a-walkin' about nearby... and there is a great stinking mire.. when the wind blows wrong I can smell it. Faugh! no wonder they all looks so sad. makes me want the open wolds of home, see for miles, green grass and clean clean air. I feels a bit sad for 'em. They aint townfolk, they aint used to livin' all bunched up. Summat must be wrong, for them to run behind the big walls.

...and thats the last I'm seeing o'that elf. Feh... scaring a girl like that. they shouldn't be allowed amongst proper folk. I been staying in the Pony since then mind... wait until its gone far away. Getting to recognise some o' the good-fer-nothing types that hang around the pony.. allus there they are. Particularly that skinny fellow [jairyth], with that mess of a little beard and moust-aches - talks all the time, allus there with his woman out in the back rooms.

Naught but a few days have come to pass since my first meeting with fellow Riders and already my heart bids me to both stay, and turn away. Some, indeed most of them seem to seek a passage back to Rohan, but to what end will this bring them? There is a time for wrath, and there is a place for laying ruin upon an enemy… But that time I feel has not yet come, and the place, although I know it well, is still I fear overrun with men who would not stop and think before drawing blade or knocking arrow.

Heh... that went better 'n I thought... got the sausages out of the kitchen in that Pony, even though that woman said I was stealin'. Should have seen her face when I ate the evidence. Stupid wealas. Ate 'em and STILL got a free dinner. Not sure what to make of the gift-giver though. All burnt up she is, as brown as a muddy river. Says she's not from the South, but everyone knows they lives too close to the sun and gets a roasting.

“And so I ended up at the court of Dáin, king under the Mountain!” Ghralin, the famed, dwarf storyteller and archivist looked satisfied and leaned back on his chair, his hands folded across his belly. After a moment he leaned forward again and took a deep draught from his battered old tankard, which was filled to the brim with that kind of brew that only madmen and dwarves could swallow. The men around the table were dumbfounded by the story they just heard. The youngest spoke up eagerly: “Come on Ghralin, tell us another story, please?” Eotháin asked.